Savage Fate
by Atalantis
Summary: She never expected to get to know her tormentor. And once she did, she never expected to like him. What other surprises does fate have in store for her?
1. Chapter 1

The world was blood pumping through her veins and throbbing in her ears, her throat tight and dry. The world was her heavy sword, getting heavier by the minute, by the strike. The world was the clang of metal on metal and the savage, angry grimace of her opponent.

He was a beast of a man, monstrous in concentration, with piercing icy blue eyes that never wavered from her even for a moment. There were flowers in Highever that color, Amerana thought wildly, dodging yet another merciless attack, but never had they been possessed of such rage. Not that she knew of many angry plants, although there had indeed been that incident in the Brecilian Forest... Loghain's next strike brought that train of thought to an abrupt halt.

Maker, what she wouldn't give to be back at Highever. Or even home at the Circle, where nothing seemed to happen for months at a time. Amerana would trade a lifetime of boredom for every second of this cold, shearing terror, intensifying every moment the fight wore on and her armor grew heavier. Fighting against such a man — and not just a man, a legend, towering high in her memory and painting the history of her nation in blood — only intensified her feelings of terror and a strange excitement.

Loghain was inexorably driving her back and back again, toward the dais, where a single misstep could cost her a twisted ankle and, subsequently, her death. He was heavier and stronger, a towering presence compared to her own fragile shape. Over his shoulder Amerana saw a glimpse of Alistair's horrified face and it seemed to give her a sudden burst of additional strength. A lucky strike and she hooked an ankle around Loghain's, as he was still parrying her blow, and pulled with all her might. He crashed to the stone floor.

She kept her features deceptively composed, though the effort was not inconsiderable. She had only barely dared to hope for such a victory at all, and now? The sight of her fallen opponent sent a thrill through her tired mind, fleeting as her triumph might be. "Do you yield, Loghain?"

His countenance was immobile for a moment, and then his face relaxed, his thin lips parting. "I didn't expect this," he rasped. "I underestimated you." His gaze swept the hall, the crowd of tense nobles and Amerana's grim companions. "There's a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died. I yield."

Maric! Despite everything, the comparison sent a frisson of excitement through Amerana. It was short-lived, however, as Anora tore through the crowd and knelt next to her father, her beautiful face twisted in near-agony. "Father!" Her blue eyes, so similar to his, sought Amerana's. "What will you do now, Warden?"

Amerana paused, uncertain. She hadn't thought much beyond the Landsmeet at all, and then the timeline in her head had narrowed further to simply the battle with Loghain. Now that she'd gained the victory, possibilities sprawled out before her, shrouded in ambiguity.

Before she could answer, however, Alistair strode forward like the spirit of angry justice personified. "There is only one option," he said coldly, not looking at anyone other than Amerana. "He will die for his crimes."

"No!" Anora gasped, her hands clutching her father's bloodied gauntlets. "No! You can't!" She looked at Amerana as well, her hands curling and uncurling in desperation. "There must be something else! Something..." Her lips twisted.

Loghain sighed and freed one hand, turning over awkwardly and, it seemed to Amerana, suppressing a wince. He kneed but did not rise, his raven locks tumbling down his shoulders in disarray as he bent his proud head. "Anora, hush," he muttered gently. In defeat he had all the grace and honor he had been missing for so long, Amerana thought fleetingly.

"I won't hush," Anora snapped back, her expression tortured. "Warden, you cannot allow my father to be killed!"

"There is another option." Riordan seemed to slide from the shadows like an Orlesian knife, cutting into their crowded midst. "The teyrn is a general of great renown. Let him be of use."

Amerana pushed a lock of hair, damp with perspiration, away from her delicate brows. "How do you mean?"

"Let him go through the Joining." Riordan's tongue seemed to caress every syllable. "Let us make him a Grey Warden."

"Absolutely not!" Alistair interjected hotly, but the idea had already begun to take root in Amerana's thoughts. There were only three Wardens as it was and the threat of an Archdemon hanging over them like a pendulum, surely it was the more prudent course of action not to discard out of hand resources they could ill afford to reject. And yet...

Amerana gazed down at Loghain, feeling her heart constrict. This man had consorted with Howe. Visions of that terrible night at Highever flickered through her thoughts like the darkest of nightmares. Screams echoed in her ears, each more heart-rending than the last, sounds of those she'd loved: her mother, her father... little Oren. There was no ignoring that if not for Loghain her family might be alive, that she would not be the last of the Couslands, a lone flame in a ceaselessly dark wasteland.

It had been cruel enough to be taken to the Circle Tower as a child upon the discovery of her magic, but at least she had had her family still, their love supporting her through the darkest hours, the templars' hate and mistrust and the other apprentices' envy. But now, with her family dead, there was nothing left at all. She was less than the other mages, those who had learned to only count on themselves. She, who had never once forgotten that she was a Cousland, was nothing.

Loghain's eyes met her, hooded, almost sarcastic, as if he knew her thoughts and laughed at them. Maybe Alistair was right. Maybe there was only one way out.

But the sight of Anora, sobbing noiselessly next to her father reminded Amerana too much of that fateful night, of the growing puddle of blood on the floor, of her own terror and pain and the determination in her mother's face.

No. This couldn't be the way.

"Riordan is right," she said slowly, watching Loghain's deepening frown.

Anora nodded frantically. "Yes! The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not? If he survives, you gain a general." Her eyes slid to Alistair and grew noticeably cooler. "If not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?"

Alistair's lips twisted. "You have got to be kidding." He stalked closer, face contorted in rage. "This man murdered our brothers! He framed us for Cailan's death! And you'd make him a Grey Warden?" He glared, a scorching look, his eyes like summer lightning. "Never!"

Amerana had not expected his outrage to be so ferocious. It was like running into a wall of heat, consuming, painful. "Alistair, we can use him." Loghain made a quiet, sardonic noise, but when Amerana glanced at him his face gave nothing away. "Trust me..."

Alistair stared at her, his face a deep well of reproach. "I... no. I can't." His head dropped and for a moment she couldn't see his face, only the blond sheaf of his golden hair. "I want to trust you," he said, his voice wracked with an agony Amerana could only begin to guess at. "But I can't accept this man as a brother. Not ever. Ask anything else of me, not this."

Anything, as if he had not just invalidated the friendship, trust and — Amerana hurt to merely think of it — the budding love that had grown between them over the months. Anything, as if he could now offer her anything at all, having defied her in front of the entire country.

Burning with mortification and anger, she looked down and met Loghain's even gaze and slightly raised eyebrow.

"Well then," she said, jerking her head up as if burned. "My decision, having defeated the teyrn — defeated Loghain — is simple. Anora will remain queen and wed Alistair, who will take his father's throne."

"Hey," Alistair said, blinking. "Wait a minute! When did we decide this? Because I don't think—"

"Anything, your majesty?" Amerana asked low enough that her voice didn't carry and thought for a second that Loghain had chuckled quietly.

Alistair reared back as if slapped and Amerana turned to Riordan, who was watching the proceedings with a narrowed, unfathomable gaze. "Will it take long to prepare for the Joining?" she asked.

"No, sister," he replied, and the endearment slid over her skin like a touch she wanted to wash off.

"Very well," she replied, and turned to the curious faces of the nobles surrounding them. "The Maker will decide the former teyrn's fate!"


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Huge hugs and thanks to everyone who read and added the story to their favorites! I always believed the Cousland origin was just a little bit limited and it struck me how much potential it could have if blended with another origin. I've seen so many good Loghain stories that I couldn't resist writing my own. Here's another tasty morsel for you!

* * *

The bloody light of the dying sun fell across the floor tiles and illuminated the small antechamber where Amerana was waiting. She was turned away, pressed to the window, but the heavy, resentful atmosphere of the room still burned across her nerves like acid.

Behind her, Alistair and Anora sat like two beautiful marble statues, sharing a bench but not touching. Anora's hands were once again twisted in her lap and Alistair was looking at anything but his intended. The air in the room was heavy with anger and hurt.

I could have been her, Amerana thought fleetingly. If she hadn't been a mage, cursed in the Maker's sight and abandoned to the Circle, if she had been allowed to remain tucked safely within the bosom of her family, raised with all the love and adoration the Couslands had to offer... She could have been different. The whole world could have been different. But there would be no glittering crown, not for Amerana. No sweet, beautiful Alistair for her husband and king.

No, the Grey Wardens were the only ones who could lay claim to her now. She would bury herself in the heavy solemnity of duty, she would carry forth her responsibilities with honor. She would make her parents proud. She was a Cousland.

"How long... will it take?" Anora asked quietly. Her fingers curled and twisted.

When Alistair did not reply, Amerana raised her shoulders briefly. "It varies, your majesty. Sometimes as little as minutes, sometimes as much as an hour." She looked to Alistair for support or confirmation, but his face was stony and his lips pursed. "I'm sure Riordan will be able to tell us soon if Loghain lives."

Anora nodded, which brought her face into the fading sunlight. Amerana sighed inaudibly. It just wasn't fair that Alistair's wife would be so beautiful. She had always admired Anora's fair, golden looks, the flow of her hair and the shape of her thin nose.

If she could have seen herself, free from the bias that had been instilled into her by the years at the Circle, she would have realized that her own face was just as beautiful, if not more. But such an insight was not granted to her.

Anora peeked suspiciously at Amerana from under thick, full lashes, the rosy curve of her mouth tight with distrust. "I still do not know why you spared my father, Warden," she admitted, sounding small. "But I do thank you."

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Alistair bit out. "Maybe he'll die yet." Anora gave him a sharp look, the corners of her mouth turning down in feminine dissatisfaction, but Alistair paid her as little attention as he would a buzzing fly in a stable. "There must be _some _justice left in the world."

Amerana favored him with a cool stare. "Justice? You would speak of justice, after leaving your order and breaking your vows? I can't afford to hope for Loghain's death, Alistair. Stew in your own petty juices, if you have to, but some of us have responsibilities to live up to." Sorrow clanged within her breast, a hollow feeling that was nearly more than she could bear. She had grown to love him over their months together, a feeling which had invigorated her with purpose and hope. Bereft, she clamped her feelings closer around her, and determined to stay strong.

Alistair's head jerked back while Anora's lips curled. "You would accuse me of deserting my responsibilities, Amerana? You were there while that bastard hunted us and sent assassins after us, while he painted us as criminals and let the whole country spit at us! And you are ready to embrace him? Who is deserting responsibilities here — and common sense?"

"I cannot afford to lose the second Warden," Amerana said, keeping an iron control on her temper while everything in her wanted to weep and throw herself on the floor. How dare he! "I'm not keen on being left with only Riordan at my side. Or do _you _like the man?" she added with an attempt at levity.

"He is a brother Warden, a reliable man," Alistair snapped. "Which is far more than I can say for _some_," and he gave the antechamber door a hard look.

The door chose this very moment to open and Riordan's head appeared in the shadows. "He..."

Amerana held her breath.

"He will live," Riordan pronounced.

Amerana exhaled. Anora started weeping quietly and Alistair's face twisted before he stood up and stalked out of the chamber.

"I will notify you before we leave, your majesty," Amerana murmured to Anora as Riordan grimaced and followed Alistair. "You will have a chance to say goodbye."

Anora's sobs only intensified.

Sighing, Amerana straightened up and walked into the room that had been appropriated for the Joining ritual, closing the door firmly behind her.

The sight of the man before her bore little resemblance to the towering vision he'd appeared during their duel. Then, he had shone with vitality, with health and breadth and a masculine force that she'd found as terrifying as it had been formidable. Now he appeared a shell of himself, pale against the stone of the floor, face limned in gold from the torchlight. His raven locks fell across his sweaty, white face, obscuring the dark pools of his eyes but not hiding lines of pain and fatigue. His breathing was labored, loud, giving birth to sighs that echoed through the small chamber and seemed to rattle at the windowpane.

Despite herself, drawn by an almost magnetic force, she was pulled to his side and knelt there, robes whispering on the stone. "Loghain?" she ventured, putting out a hand with a tremor of uncertainty. "Are you—"

"Fine." His voice was low and rough and at her touch he rose, shoulder straining against his armor as he gathered himself to his feet. Cold dignity created a stony mask of his face, a hard, resentful expression that only seemed to ease a little once he realized he'd survived the Joining and was — for the moment — safe.

In the next moment his expression twisted into surprise and momentary pain and he wavered, almost crashing into the wall. Quickly, Amerana moved her shoulder under his and grunted in surprise at the heavy weight of warm man and hard, freezing armor as it rested on her and then slid to the floor as her muscles gave out.

"This is how you could have defeated me," she murmured, balling up a convenient tablecloth to use as a makeshift pillow. "Fall on me and I'm in your power."

Loghain didn't reply, merely turning his head away from the torchlight as if hurt his eyes. His eyelashes trembled against his pale cheeks.

"Anora has been told that you survived," Amerana said after another moment of his silence. "You will be able to speak to her again before we—"

"Does it ever go away?" he rasped without opening his eyes.

Amerana blinked, taken aback. "Does what go away?"

"The voices.." He squeezed his eyes closed tighter and raised a hand to rub at his forehead. "The screams."

"Oh." Amerana sat back on her haunches, robes pooling around her in a sea of dark velvet. "It's the darkspawn. They—"

"I know it's the darkspawn," he interrupted impatiently, "otherwise I would not have started to hear it when I drank their blood!"

Amerana moved back, grimacing. "Yes, indeed. Well, we — Riordan and Al — Riordan and I hope that it will fade once the archdemon is defeated. And you do get used to it."

Loghain rubbed his forehead, grimacing. He looked pale as paper. Still, there was something arresting about him. His eyes were brilliantly intelligent, glowing with a savage inner fire. Amerana felt for a moment like a moth, drawn in to something...

Dangerous, she thought with a shiver, cold crawling across her skin. Loghain was not a man to underestimate, not even for a second, and he certainly wasn't a man to admire, even if the sight of his profile in the torchlight did strange things to her stomach. Surely he hadn't been admirable when he'd consorted with Rendon Howe to destroy her family. Surely he hadn't been admirable when he divided the country for his own selfish causes, throwing away thirty years of peace and King Maric's lifetime work on a gambit that had only endangered his country, endangered his daughter, and left a nation bereft of their king.

Amerana steeled her resolve and squared her shoulders. She could not afford pity for this man, nor any other feelings of a softer nature. Alistair had not been entirely wrong. Keeping Loghain close would be like keeping a hungry wolf on a chain, nestled close into the bosom of their cause. As long as he remembered that they shared an enemy, as long as his immeasurable talents were put into the cause of slaughtering darkspawn, then he was welcome. Any more than that, Amerana would not give him, not one inch, not one hour.

"We'll be leaving Denerim soon," she made herself say, voice cold in her throat. "I trust you won't be a burden and slow us down."

His eyes narrowed and his lips drew back. "I trust I will be able to keep up, Warden," he replied coldly. It would have sounded more convincing had he not been still flinching from the light.

Rolling her eyes, Amerana run her hand over his forehead, channeling a burst of healing energy that spilled thickly from her fingers and disappeared into his skin. Loghain gasped, his head tilting back in relief from pain and his back arching. Despite the stern talking-to she had just given herself, his gesture fluttered deep in her belly, pulling at something inside her.

When his eyes opened again they were a clear, cold blue, the color of mountain springs. His face, for all its sour expression, looked relaxed and calm. "Thank you," he said quietly, already moving to sit up. "I trust you won't slow me down, Warden?"

Amerana suppressed a very inappropriate laugh.

On the lower floor of the Palace they parted, Loghain to pack his possessions and speak with Anora and Amerana to meet her companions at Arl Eamon's estate. She had barely taken a few steps outside the Palace, however, when she almost literally ran into the Revered Mother who had attended the Landsmeet.

The woman's grey hair was tidily pulled back and her Chantry robes without a single fleck of dust. Her eyes burned with an unholy fire, igniting everything in their path. "Mage!" she said loudly, making the guards at the Palace entrance turn their heads. "I would speak with you!"

Amerana turned slowly, the old fear of Chantry and templars curling like a stone fist in her stomach. "Yes, Revered Mother?"

"You think you are so clever, don't you? You solved the riddle, installed a new king, and ran away with the regent," the priest said, her lips a thin, angry line.

Amerana's control, already worn thin from the events of the day, felt more fragile than ever. "No, Revered Mother," she said, trying to be polite even though she feared nothing she could say would satisfy the priest. "I only did what I had to." She felt disturbing quakes in her serenity as the old woman gave her the evil eye. Amerana knew that to the Revered Mother, she was already an abomination in the sight of the Maker, and it tore at her. But there was nothing she could do. Her course had been set months before, when Howe and his men had taken everything from her, and Duncan had stolen her from her dying father's side to become a Warden.

The Revered Mother did not look assuaged in the slightest. "The Chantry had given its blessing to Queen Anora and her chosen Regent," she hissed, a froth appearing at her lips. "You have interfered in larger matters than you know!"

"Then perhaps you should have kept your interfering nose in your own business," came the dry, sardonic voice, a moment before Loghain himself appeared around the doorframe. "Last I knew, the Chantry was to keep its sticky fingers out of politics - and out of Grey Warden business. Unless you wish to Join as well, madam," he offered with a sneer. "There may well be enough poison left for you."

Caught speechless for a moment, Amerana felt like a bubble of air was expanding, ever expanding in her breast. Biting back a triumphant laugh that wouldn't stay in her throat she turned to her savior. "Warden Loghain," she said, keeping her voice calm with the utmost effort. "I have been waiting for you. We meet at Arl Eamon's estate."

With a brief nod he followed her as she made a hasty bow to the priest and walked away from the oppressive mountain of the Palace.


	3. Chapter 3

The savage winter wind whipped around Loghain's towering frame as he followed Amerana out the city gates of Denerim. He didn't regret leaving the city in the slightest. Already it was too full of bitterness, too full of old memories and new unhealing wounds, lifelong regrets shoved under his skin like burning needles. The foreign sense of the darkspawn scratched at his brain, an itch he couldn't soothe that screamed at him mercilessly. No, it was better for him to leave the city. His place was with the Wardens now, he knew. It was an implacable knowledge, cold as ice and twice as hard, but it carried its own reassurance. He had a purpose, now. It was enough.

Loghain hated to admit how displaced he had felt since Maric died. Ever since then he'd felt as though he'd been toiling away in thankless, pointless isolation, trying to wrest together the threads that would keep Ferelden together and whole - and failing. These young pups - Cailan and the rest of his ilk - they had no idea of the sacrifices Loghain and men like him had made to preserve their country, no concept of the hardships made for the security of their nation.

Loghain looked to the grey, bitter-cold horizon, where the sun was only now beginning to rise, and felt utterly hopeless at the prospect of a new day.

The Wardens might have been his new companions but the knowledge of that sat heavy on his shoulders and in his stomach. They were not unreliable, he supposed, nor untalented - after all, none of his people had managed to kill or even seriously derail them and that damned elf had even joined the girl Cousland's cause. And yet these were not the people at whose side he wanted to spend the last weeks of his life, for he could not believe it would be much longer than that.

The old mage was dry and surprisingly vicious for the grandmotherly looks; he little barbs did not truly hurt him yet they buzzed around him like gnats, too numerous and annoying to swat. The younger mage seemed fascinated with him, but he'd long ago lost any taste for bared bosoms and seductive walks. The others were an irritating mix of interest and disgust, leaving the safety of their little group to talk to him and then falling back as soon as it became apparent that he wouldn't play their games.

The Cousland girl was, he had to admit, a mystery, a puzzle he had no key to.

He had thought her a simpleton at first, for she had little knowledge of politics, having been given away to the Circle as a child. And yet she had evaded all the traps he had set for her and then single-handedly defeated him at the Landsmeet. Not only physically, as her magic made theirs an unfair contest, he thought, but she had outmaneuvered him politically, outmatched his every gambit.

He had thought her malicious, after, had fancied to have seen a nasty gleam in her eye when she had given him into the Orlesian Warden's care for the Joining ritual, the aches of which still coursed through his veins. And yet she had been curiously gentle with him after, both in words and in actions.

It was nothing like what Loghain had expected. He had expected vitriol from the Grey Wardens, at the very least, to bear the brunt of their poisonous glances and mistrustful words. This was more tolerable, at least, though he did not know what to make of it.

More than anything, he worried for Anora. His only child was the only bright spot in his grey, cheerless world. Since Celia died there had been no sweetness to fill his days, no companionship to ease the lingering loneliness in his heart - save Anora. His pride in her had been an unwavering beacon, and though he had never been good with beacons, he thought ruefully, securing her safe rule at Ferelden's head had been as fulfilling as it had been taxing. He could not be more proud of his daughter, nor now more concerned for her.

He trusted Maric's bastard not at all; he was little more than a threadbare imitation of Maric's greatness and every time Loghain saw him his flaws seemed to magnify themselves like many tiny mirrors. He was callow and cocksure, he had no respect for the crown or for the authority Anora had commanded these past five years, he had no sense of what it took to become a great man, a great king. Or a great husband, Loghain feared. He could not bear the thought of Anora's intelligence being wasted serving at the right hand of yet another fool, of her promise being dimmed by her shackling to a man who could never be her equal.

He sighed, wistful.

As if sensing his thoughts, Cousland turned, looking over her companions, her gaze coming to rest on him. She didn't smile - and why would a woman smile at him? - but there was a momentary shift in her face, a calm acceptance. For a moment, a very brief and fleeting moment, he felt as if he was a part of the group he was travelling with.

The feeling faded with another gust of the bitter north wind, torn from his mind and leaving coldness and ice in its wake. Annoyed with himself at the frivolity of his thoughts, Loghain quickened his pace until he was walking at the head of the pack.

Cousland gave him a brief nod and tucked an escaping strand of hair under the hood of her dark grey woolen cloak. "Loghain."

He lowered his voice lest the wind carry it back to the others. "Where are you thinking of stopping tonight?"

"Wherever we are when the night falls," the girl replied with a shrug. Another lock of her hair escaped and she muttered and pushed it back.

Loghain was surprised to find himself fighting a faint smile. "You have not mapped out your route, then?" he asked quickly to cover his uncharacteristic behavior.

"Mapping doesn't do us much good," she admitted, sounding wistful. "The darkspawn can attack us at any time. We can be thrown off a schedule for days at a time, or be dragged halfway across Ferelden at a word." There was a pensive shimmer in the shadow of her eyes, a faraway look Loghain could only begin to guess at. "I'm still not used to all this, I think," she confessed. "There was never a need for mapping at the Circle. And no darkspawn, either."

Loghain found himself touched, quite against his will, by the childlike purity of her wistful desires. Home, safety... yes, he could understand these yearnings. He would never let on as much, but he shared them as well, tucked safe as a chick under a hen's wing and kept close in the bloody depths of his heart.

He turned his eyes to the road ahead, a barren path that would take them to Redcliffe.

By the time night began to creep like a thief across the sky, Loghain was thick with weariness and exhaustion. His head felt muddled and full, his muscles sore and tense, the unholy murmurings of the darkspawn a constant, hated presence in his blood and mind. He tried not to let the terrible tension that wracked down every fiber of his being show as Cousland called a halt, and turned to gather firewood without prompting.

There were advantages to travelling with three mages, as actually starting a fire took bare moments. The huge qunari and the golem made erecting the tents a matter of minutes, and Loghain could remove to his shelter and turn his back on the busy movements of the others much sooner than he had hoped for. The delectable smell of cooking started up outside the canvas wall, but as hungry as he was the effort involved in moving was too much.

And he was indeed hungry. His appetite seemed to have intensified tenfold since the Joining, much to his annoyance and occasional chagrin. He had not though to pack much food and hunting was not going to be possible, judging by the sharp ache in his back and legs.

Silently he cursed his age and the undignified infirmities that came with it. As a young man a journey such as that day's, from Denerim to the wilds of the Bannorn, would have been a mere pleasure cruise, and hunting would have topped off the day nicely. Now, however, he could do little but lie on his thin blanket spread over jagged bits of stone and root and hope that he would recover somewhat to make an appearance to preserve some of his dignity.

He surveyed the roof of his canvas tent, listening to the sounds of the camp around him and wondering if he would sleep at all tonight. A persistent ache in his back made lying supine uncomfortable but shifting brought him no alleviation, and with the new sensations of the Taint as they pushed through his body...

The sensations awakened more than just the sense of the darkspawn in his head and the ravenous hunger eating at his belly. There were other hungers...

The flap of the canvas tent twitched aside under the ministrations of Amerana's delicate feminine fingers. "Loghain?"

He sat quickly, regretting it when his headache intensified like a dwarf with a hammer and more enthusiasm than sense beating on the back of his skull. "You needed something, Warden?"

"I wanted to make sure you were alright," Amerana confessed, the dim light of the tent making her seem hazy and unreal. "You retreated to your tent rather early."

"Habit of mine," he said offhandedly, trying to deflect her concern. "Surely you're familiar with my retreating habits, by now."

Her face froze into a marble mask, eyes wide and mouth forming a perfect o of surprise.

"It was a joke, Warden," he explained patiently, feeling as though the entire evening had been an exercise in tedium and pointlessness. Not that he had ever considered himself a man to enliven the evenings with humor and frivolity, but surely some small levity could be afforded him from time to time?

"Oh," she said.

"You are not required to laugh," he said, feeling gracious and very tired.

"Good," she said.

"Warden," Loghain sighed. "Is there a reason you're in my tent at the moment? Beyond your touching concern for my well-being, that is. I assure you, I'm not quite ready to fall dead at your feet."

Some humor finally, finally! came into her face, turning the corners of her full lips up. "I'm glad to hear it," she said with a small smile. "I'd hate to lose another Warden so soon."

A Grey Warden. Of the many things Loghain had been in his long life, he had never even imagined he would become one of their ilk. And here he was, a Grey Warden along with the mageling offspring of the Couslands.

He was about to offer another pointless remark to maneuver her out of his tent when a gust of wind tore at the tent flap in her hands, causing her to grimace and edge inside, dropping the fabric behind her. So much for getting her out, he thought with a grimace.

"Since we have the time," she began with uncharacteristic, slow caution, "I thought that if you had any questions about the Joining I could answer them."

"Questions?" he sneered at her, trying to shift his position to relieve the strain on his back a little. "I drank your poison, Warden. What else is there?"

"The dreams," she said quietly. "Do you remember what you saw during the ritual?"

The damned Orlesian's face, he almost answered, but unbidden, the ghost of a vision presented itself to him, a memory of screaming and giant wings and masses of misshapen, terrifying figures flowing like a river in the dark.

"No," he lied. "Nothing."

The Cousland gave him a long, inscrutable look. "Well," she said eventually. "You will dream more, but the dreams will fade as you get used to them. They... might be real visions. We don't really know." She gave him a look that penetrated his insides. "Are you in pain?" He was about to protest when she stared at him candidly. "The first few days after my Joining I was sore all over. Here."

A spark of light appeared at the tips of her delicate fingers. Loghain almost cringed at the sensation of her warm hand. It was gentle. Searing. And then she cast a spell that sent a jolt of pleasured relief sliding through him. All at once he felt invigorated, all the pain ebbing away in a moment. The feeling was almost intoxicating.

Cousland gave him a knowing smile. "Better, isn't it?" He could only nod. "Come eat, then," she invited, pushing the flap of the tent aside and heading out into the bitter night. He sat in solitude for a few moments more, considering, and then followed in the invisible path of her footsteps. He had followed her thus far, he thought, with a hint of irony. He could follow her to supper, at the very least.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Thank you for the reviews and the favorites! Wow, I'm so happy you guys liked it. Here's a new chapter and it comes with a twist! =^_^=

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The halls of Redcliffe castle were dim and dreary, lit only by a handful of low-burning torches in metal brackets lining the walls. Amerana's mood was as dismal as the hallway. Riordan's words burned darkly in her mind.

A Grey Warden would have to die.

It would be her, Amerana knew. She would be the one to take the final blow, to spend her young life in the effort and sacrifice herself for the good of all of Ferelden.

Riordan himself was an experienced Grey Warden with many years left to him, and no matter what she personally thought of the man, he was needed, too important to die unless there was no other way.

Loghain, for all he was a newly minted Grey Warden, with the darkspawn draught still burning through his veins like tar, had been King Maric's friend and Ferelden's finest general. His life was precious for all the experience he carried in the dark reaches of his mind, despite the recent developments.

No, it would have to be her. Especially with Alistair's refusal to have anything more to do with the Grey Wardens despite all his earlier promises.

She was the youngest Warden in Ferelden, and though she had the most years left to her she had neither experience nor might nor special magic beyond the standard spells she had learned at the Circle. There was, in fact, nothing to her young being other than the accident of her high birth, and even that had been the cause of ridicule among the other apprentices.

Amerana knew her own worth well. It didn't add up to much.

The loss of her family had changed her from a loved but disinherited mage daughter into just another mage, just another Grey Warden with no special talents. And her brief spell of a life was coming to an end.

If only she had Alistair to talk to... but no. He'd made his feeling about her quite clear after she'd spared Loghain's life. His words still burned in her ears. Alistair would have understood, but _her _Alistair, not this foreign stranger betrothed to the queen and half a country away. She would have to depend on herself to see her duty done.

A hot tea splashed on her hand, and another. She had not meant to cry! Yet the tears came like an unstoppable river over a broken dam, roaring in her heart and mind and spilling over her pale cheeks. She had never dreamed her life would end like this. It had all seemed so much simpler when Duncan had taken her to Ostagar. Her objective had been clear, then: kill the darkspawn, and try not to die. But now the second of her objectives was as moot as a tranquil mage. She would die soon, she must die soon, because her duty demanded it. There was no other way.

Her mouth felt like old paper, dry and dusty, her tongue a parchment, and unsaid words written upon it. She walked the remainder of the corridor in a dreadful haze, her arms around herself tightly, feeling her throat closing up around the tight knot of misery lodged there.

In the doorway of her room she merely stood for a moment, blinking, uncomprehending. The firelight crackled gold and bloody red, casting deep moving shadows into every part of the bitterly cold room, and motionless in the flicker and sway of the fire was a figure, voluptuous in stillness and dark against the light.

"Morrigan," Amerana said weakly, clutching the door frame for support. "Why are you-"

"In your room?" Morrigan purred, slinking upward from the edge of the bed and standing with languid grace. "I might have a solution to your problem," she said diffidently, examining the tabletop as though the idea of tables was a foreign one. "The loop to your hole, as it were."

"My problem?" Amerana asked. How could Morrigan know about Riordan? Had she shapeshifted, clinging to the shadows as a spider in her web? Had she listened at the door? Or, Amerana thought with a frisson of uncertainty, had she talked to Loghain?

"Do not be obtuse, Warden," Morrigan snapped impatiently. "And 'tis at your own peril if you are playing coy with me. This may be your only chance!"

"I do not understand you," Amerana uttered, confusion and a haze of misery clinging to her mind like spider silk. "What are you referring to? Do not toy with me, Morrigan," she pleaded. "I just want to be alone tonight."

"Foolish girl," the witch hissed. "Let me speak plainly, then. I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be you."

Amerana's lips trembled and her heart clenched. "Yes," she whispered, not daring to look up. "You know it is my duty as a Grey Warden."

"Fool!" Morrigan's voice was sharp as a whip, it sliced the air and shattered it into stinging sparks. "I have come to tell you this does not need to be, unless you let this chance pass you and die of your stupidity."

"How dare you!" Amerana took a step back, her cheeks flaming. "Have you ever understood what it means? In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death..!"

"There need be no sacrifice!" Morrigan near-shouted, her voice ringing through the cold space like a slap. "Do you truly not see what I am offering you?"

Amerana hesitated.

"A way out!" Morrigan rebuked, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Think you that Flemeth sent me with you for nothing!"

It had to be a trick, Amerana thought. Surely Riordan would have known if a way to survive existed. But then, Flemeth was older than legends, older than the Circle, and who knew what strange secrets were closely guarded in that small hut? Unless...

"If you mean shirking-" she began, but Morrigan interrupted with a sharp gesture that cut the air.

"'tis is the great gift of choice that I bring you. Normally your choices would be to either flee as a coward or face the possibility that you may die. I offer another alternative."

"I will not flee!" Amerana said hotly.

"Then listen! I offer a way out. A way out for all the Grey Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice."

"How?" Amerana inquired cautiously. Morrigan was an apostate and an apostate's daughter, little better than a maleficar. She was afraid of the possibilities that dark family could offer her.

"A ritual...performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night," Morrigan continued. At Amerana's frown she tossed her head impatiently, looking graceful and strong like a jungle cat from one of the books Amerana had so loved in the library. "It is old magic, from a time before the Circle of Magi was created."

Wary, Amerana took a step back and let the cold stone of the wall embrace her. "Blood magic?" she whispered?

"Some would call it blood magic," Morrigan waved a hand dismissively, "but that is but a name. There is far more to fear in this world than names."

This was true, Amerana thought, remembering with a shudder the horrors of the past months. The tentacles of the broodmother slithered through her memory. "Go on."

**"**What I propose is this," Morrigan said with deceptive mildness. "Convince Loghain to lie with me. Here, tonight. And from this ritual a child shall be conceived within me."

Amerana reeled back as if struck. "You want to... to bear Loghain's child?" she asked, not believing her own ears. She hadn't considered Loghain in such a light before, but now that the idea had been brought up...

"I want him to take part in the ritual," Morrigan corrected, keeping her face as cool and smooth as pink marble. If she felt anything at all, now, she made no sign of it. "To preserve the spirit of the Old God. And to spare you both from the death that - otherwise - faces you."

Thoughts wheeled through Amerana's mind. She felt an instant's squeezing hurt at the resurgence of the idea of death, no matter how necessary. Or...? "What will you do then?" she ventured, a small quaver in her voice. "After...?"

"You will not see me again," Morrigan reassured her, her mouth as pink as the rest of her face. When Amerana was silent for long moments, Morrigan moved, still half-silhouetted against the firelight. "Speak with Loghain," she suggested quietly. "And return to me with an answer. Night is slipping away from us even now, and time grows short."

Some twenty minutes later, a single hot tear rolled its way down Amerana's cheek as she huddled in the library of Redcliffe Castle. How could she have thought Loghain would listen to her? She was just a foolish girl to him, a foolish girl with foolish concerns that meant nothing to him at all. It had taken all of her courage to stand outside his room and knock upon the wood of his door, had taken more courage than she knew she possessed when his deep, gruff voice called upon her to enter. And then to be denied! So sharply, and after so little conversation! She'd not even managed half of her explanation of Morrigan's offer when he'd ejected her from his room in a towering fury, roaring his outrage as it burned in her ears. And now nothing! For all her effort, for all she had done, to be denied so cruelly now...

She could weep.

She did weep.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed freely, unconcerned with who might hear. To have given so much and to get nothing but a snarl of dismissal and a door nearly slammed on the tip of her nose for her trouble!

_"To lie with..." Loghain's nostrils flared and he didn't so much as finish the sentence. "Get out." _

_"But..."_

_"_Out_, Warden!" he shouted, standing so suddenly that Amerana took a step back. _

And now she would die in the battle, her soul consumed by the Archdemon. There wouldn't even be anything of her left to wander the Fade, nothing to pass on to the Maker's side. Less than a wraith, less than a drifting spirit...

Amerana gulped, shuddering with the force of her sobs.

o+o+o

Loghain glared at the closed door of his room savagely. The cheek of that girl! To imagine he would want to have a sordid interlude with her, when she was young enough to be his daughter, younger than Anora, even. She had stuttered and stumbled over her words and the hem of her silken emerald robes, her lips trembling and her eyes shining wetly in the lamplight. There was even something vaguely appealing about that picture, had she not been so damn _young_! The utter ridiculousness of her idea and the timing of it stroked his annoyance to new heights, however.

The way she had all but run out of his chambers still nagged at him as he lay twisting and turning on his hard bed. Sleep would not claim him tonight. He yearned for its touch but it eluded him again and again, like it so often did these days.

He had never slept well on his own, and after Celia's death insomnia had become a frequent guest at night. Images and memories passed before his inner eye, demanding his attention and rousing emotions he was helpless to control when in the grip of fatigue and worry.

Riordan's words caused him no apprehension. A death did not trouble him. He had expected it for years now, and although he would not shirk his last duty, some treacherous part of him was almost looking forward to being with Celia and Maric again.

And answer to the Maker for his many crimes.

A new tug of annoyed guilt tore at his guts. He shouldn't have let the girl go like that without an explanation. She had seemed distraught, and they all needed to be at their best on the day of the battle.

With a sigh and a muttered curse he slipped out of bed, shivering as his feet hit the freezing stones of the floor and dressed as quickly as his cold-numb fingers would allow him. Where would the chit go? She was the quiet, bookish sort, and her Circle Tower upbringing would likely cause her to take shelter in the most familiar room of the Redcliffe castle.

The library it was, then.

Outside his chamber the hallways were dim and freezing cold, and utterly uninviting. If he were to get turned about in this maze of a castle, he knew, there could well be knives in the darkness awaiting him. He had few enough allies, he realized with a pang of distant remorse. And now, perhaps, he had alienated the one who had been kindest to him when she needn't have been, against her own inclination and against her own best interests. She had sacrificed her budding love with Alistair to save him.

Loghain, having given up love once, knew how deeply it could sting, how long the pain could sit in one's soul like a stone, forcing all the softer human emotions to make way for its implacable presence.

The soft, gentle sounds of a soul distraught pierced the gloom. Loghain followed on feet light as a cat's, heading in the direction of the noise. Perhaps he could right this small wrong, then. Perhaps he wasn't so far gone as he had begun to believe.

He found Amerana doubled over by a meager fire, face hidden by her hands and her fingers glimmering with tears. She seemed so fragile, then, so small and unassuming. Could this really have been the woman who had caused him such grief and strain over the last months?

His knee cracked as he approached; her head snapped up and he saw that her great green orbs were red with tears, the tracks of them streaming down her white face and over the smooth swoop of her pale cheeks. "L-Loghain," she gasped, surprised and not a little mortified. She wiped delicately at her tears, stiffening her posture. She was a soldier through and through, he thought, admiring. She would not admit to her own feminine weaknesses, even though it must cause her considerable pain.

Such a paradox, he thought, intrigued. Capable of such steel, and such silk. She was a mystery.

He wanted to solve her.

"It has occurred to me," he began carefully, "that our previous conversation may have been..." Abrupt. Curt. Terrible. "Less than pleasant," he said, settling for the path of least blame.

"You _shouted _at me," she said, wounded.

Loghain felt a pang. "You surprised me," he said, hoping it sounded conciliatory enough. "I was unprepared for your forwardness. I had no idea you felt that way about me," he admitted ruefully. Why he'd behaved in such an incendiary manner to a simple offer of a night's company... Maker knew it had been a long time, but surely he wasn't such a beast that it would be out of the question?

"Y-You?" she stuttered, her face flushing to a deep crimson. "But, no!"

Loghain frowned, taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh," she all but moaned, hiding her blushing face in her hands and gasping through her sobs. "I'm sorry, I... you didn't... Oh, Maker, I'm so sorry!"

Thoroughly confused, Loghain stepped closer to the fireplace and what little warmth it offered. "You needn't apologize," he said with a sigh and leaned against the wall, tiredness weighing down his limbs.

"I... it... it wasn't you. I mean, it wasn't me," Cousland stuttered without looking up.

"Well, that explains it all, then," Loghain muttered and raised his voice in a somewhat plaintive "would you care to elaborate, Warden?"

"There was. Morrigan," Cousland said hesitantly. "She. There was. She knows of a ritual. She says it will save us all when we fight the archdemon." Her voice came with more assurance as she progressed in her explanation. She had even begun sneaking glances at him. "She says the ritual involves..." and there she lost her forward momentum again, turning her face from him.

"Just spit it out," Loghain said in exasperation. How bad could it be?

"It involves you lying with her and siring a child," she said in a rush.

Oh. That bad.

Speechless, Loghain drew a hand over his face, but her words failed to rearrange themselves into a more convenient memory. "You are not joking, are you?" he asked but one look at her blushing, miserable expression told him that she was serious.

"I've never heard of such a ritual," he said and sank heavily into a chair. "Could she have lied to you? What magic is that? What is she hoping to accomplish?"

"She wants to," her face screwed up in a visible attempt to remember, "to preserve the spirit of an Old God."

"An Old God," Loghain repeated, his tongue feeling numb in his mouth. It was, perhaps, the last thing he would have expected. Under normal circumstances he would have dismissed the Cousland girl a second time, but these were far from normal circumstances. An Old God, he repeated to himself, and pushed up from the chair, which creaked. "I believe," he began, feeling very tired already, "that we should go speak with the witch. I would hear this from her myself."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, I've been soooo busy with school! Thanks to everyone who's read and especially icey cold for the super reviews! =^_^=

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Morrigan was in Cousland's room, sitting by the fire that made her cat-eyes dance with an unholy light and her bared skin shine.

"Well?" she asked when Loghain walked in, Cousland hesitating by his shoulder. "I see you brought him, Warden. I am pleased you agreed to my plan."

"Not so quickly," Loghain interrupted forcefully. "I would first learn more of this ritual of yours."

Morrigan's shoulders rose and fell in a sinuous shrug. "The magic of it cannot be explained to one such as you, Loghain. Suffice it to say that it will cost you very little and gain you a great deal."

Loghain narrowed his eyes. "And this child that is to be born of it? Anora does not need a "little brother" to appear and lay a claim on her throne."

"Worry not," Morrigan's voice was rich and low, like hot treacle. "The child will never know of its father, and I will never return to Ferelden. That I swear."

Loghain hesitated, apprehension and dismay warring in his breast. "Leave us to talk," he commanded.

Morrigan rose like a flower unfolding. "You have little time," she cautioned. "Should you make the right decision, come find me. I shall be in my room." The door closed silently behind her.

Loghain turned to young Cousland, who had been silent throughout the exchange and was, as he saw now, pale and biting her lip. He disliked the thought of such a young girl, younger than his own daughter, losing her life in a fight not her own, but the cost for her assured survival was too steep.

"Warden," he began slowly, and paused. "Do you believe this witch is sincere in her reassurances?"

Amerana thought, frowning in concentration, shadows playing along the line of her dainty nose. "Morrigan is..." she hesitated. "Morrigan."

It wasn't reassuring in the least.

"She's never lied to us," Amerana offered, taking in Loghain's wince, her expression turning earnest in defense of her companion. "She's always _tried_. If she was trying to do us harm, she could've done it a long time ago."

Loghain sighed, leaning against the post of the bed before remembering where he was, and straightening. If he could just have a day's rest, a chance to recover before marching headlong into hell... But there was nothing to be done. "This ritual is unnecessary, Warden. I had no illusions when I joined your order that I would be your brother for very long. If there is a price to be paid, I will pay it, and consider it justice."

Amerana's face fell and her eyes grew very large and bright. "Loghain... you don't have to do this."

Loghain sighed again, wishing he could return to his rooms and sleep, if this was truly going to be the last restful night of his life. "If a sacrifice is necessary, then I will offer myself as the sacrifice," he declared. "We needn't face any questions of trust, or any consequences that we cannot now foresee."

Amerana crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pulling the fabric of her robes taut. She bit her lip in thought, and it flushed a dusky rose color, reddening under her teeth. Loghain cleared his throat and kept his eyes on her face. "But after we kill the archdemon," she began, sounding like a question. "I'll have to rebuild the Wardens."

Loghain took that in. "I suppose you will." Probably with the help of what Orlesians would be sent in in the aftermath of the Blight. To "rebuild." To "aid" Ferelden. He could see it happening all too easily, his mind's eye readily displaying images of war and reconquest, of Ferelden laid low at the feet of Orlais, again.

Amerana looked bereft, then sniffed once, decisively, and raised her chin. "But if we do... if you do Morrigan... Morrigan's ritual," she continued, piecing it together like a ragged quilt. "Then you could stay with me. To rebuild the Wardens," she said quickly, and was it his imagination or did some of the pallor leave those delicate cheeks at the words?

He considered the idea. It had merits, certainly. His vanity was tempted, aroused by her vision of his help in rebuilding the country.

Again.

To be the hero once more, to have the chance to undo some of the wrongs he had knowingly and unwittingly committed in the months of his regency, to go down in history books as the hero had been and wished, fiercely, to remain, and not as the doddering old fool who had split the country and ignored the Blight until it had been almost too late.

But reality intervened.

"That child," he offered. "We do not know what will happen to Morrigan and to that... Old God she means to create."

"I don't trust Riordan," Amereana said, tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't want to do this alone. I'm," her voice lowered and became indistinct. "I'm scared."

Something shifted in Loghain, memories long suppressed welling up and causing an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. His mind heavy with remorse he sighed and rubbed his face. "I suppose," he began, and was rewarded with hope blossoming on Amerana's face, her lips parting in happy anticipation.

"We will find her," she promised fervently. "After we are safe, after the archdemon is slain... we shall find her and deal with it."

Apparently the decision had been made for him. Emotions swirling, Loghain lowered his head and steeled himself. "Very well," he said eventually. "I will speak to Morrigan."

Morrigan's chambers were as bare as everyone else's, Loghain thought. It seemed the arling of Redcliffe had little hospitality to offer any of them. Or perhaps he was merely tired, and jumping at shadows.

It had been a long day.

"Loghain," Morrigan said without turning around, her voice low and smooth as dark silk. "So you have come to a decision, I take it?"

A final refusal pounded in his thoughts. He could still turn away, could still deny his duty. He need not lie with the witch, he could return to his room to enjoy what little time he'd have left in private...

Loghain shut the door behind himself, his decision set in unbreakable stone. "Let us go through your ritual, witch, and be done with it."

Morrigan's smirk was sly, a curved, clever thing that played on her mouth. "Be done with it?" she echoed, almost teasing. But then her amusement abated, her expression sobering. "This will not take long at all, Loghain." She stood gracefully, and her hands went to the ties of her revealing robes.

Loghain pursed his lips. The sight of her body was as pleasing to him as the sight of any other woman's body, which was to say not remotely.

The witch seemed to notice his expression. "Do you not like it?" she purred, running her hand over her hip.

"You'll have to forgive me if I shut my eyes and think of my dead wife," Loghain said sharply. Celia had been the last woman to incite his lust, and he would die with her having been the last.

"You would rather make love to a desiccated corpse than me? My, but you are full of the unexpected," Morrigan remarked acidly. She was entirely naked now, her golden skin shimmering in the firelight.

"Let us get this over with," Loghain sighed and moved to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. It took scant moments to divest himself of his garments and then the witch was suddenly upon him, pushing him over to the bed and straddling his hips almost behind his back his the mattress.

Loghain closed his eyes and imagined the body on top of him shifting, changing, the skin lightening and the hips widening. Celia hadn't been pretty, but she had been his, beloved and familiar, in his bed and in his life.

It worked enough that he felt a slight stirring in his groin, but then Morrigan hissed something and the illusion dissolved into sparks behind his eyelids. Loghain opened his eyes and glared at the witch, wincing as she grabbed his flaccid manhood tightly enough to hurt.

"Is this necessary?" Loghain managed, regretting this entire course of action already.

"For you to remain in the present? Yes." Morrigan's golden eyes flashed disapproval. "I require little enough of you, Loghain. I had presumed you would be at least virile enough to see this one, small task done, but if you require assistance..."

"I do not."

"Then enough of this pointless conversation," she snapped, twisting her hips until he felt the core of her against the flaccid length of him. "You will be able to perform?"

"I thought you said this conversation was pointless," he returned harshly, his eyes snapping blue fire.

"And so it is." She trailed tickling fingers up his chest, balanced on her palms, and began.

o+o+o

The library was a poor place to have a good cry, Amerana thought, retreating further between two bookshelves and trying to make herself as invisible as possible. She had never intended for events to unfold like this at all. If her life had gone according to plan she would still be studying spirit spells at the Circle Tower, learning to cast little wisps of light, or better, she would be at home in Highever, safe within the sheltering haven of her family's love. Being torn from both her homes, both her families, for the sake of a cause she had never chosen...

Amerana sniffled into her sleeve.

And she didn't know what to do about Loghain at all. First he had been an enemy, merely a steel-eyed vision of war, who had been more of a symbol than a man at all. Then at the Landsmeet he had become more, and she had seen the fragile humanity beneath his outward bulwark of indifference. He adored his daughter, had bled and wept and toiled for the sake of a country who would never grant him the same devotion, and at the end, when faced with the heartrending choice, he had joined his enemy with more honor than Amerana had ever suspected him to be endowed with.

And now she had thrown him to Morrigan's questionable mercies. Amerana thought of Flemeth, of soulless cackles and dry, crooked fingers, and of an Archdemon's soul in a child with Loghain's icy eyes.

She shuddered in her nook, wishing fervently that no one would think to look for her here.

Sniffing and wiping the thin fabric of her sleeve over her wet face, Amerana tucked wisps of hair behind her ears and tried to put on a brave face. It wouldn't do for anyone to find her here, her, the Warden, being at the mercy of her savage emotions like this. But it was no use, the tears kept coming in an unstoppable river, her chest tight and her grief unbroken.

Trying to distract herself she reached for a book, her wet fingers leaving streaks on the dusty cover, but there was no solace to be found between the pages, only more grief in beautiful, heart-rendering words of a long-dead poet, one who seemed to feel with her across the centuries, engraving fiery lines of pain and suffering onto the thin vellum.

There was a noise, heavier than the light shuffling of mice would have been, and Amerana stiffened, frantically trying to stop the heaving of her bosom against the thin fabric of her clinging robes.

Heavy steps sounded against the stone floor, then came closer, muffled by the fireside rug. It couldn't be...

But it was.

Loghain looked down at her where she was huddled by the bookshelf, the poetry volume still open in her lap. He looked tired and somewhat disheveled, the dark bruises under his eyes starkly prominent.

"What are you doing there?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh, I," Amerena cast frantically for an excuse, something to disguise or explain her tears. "I was just... reading a sad poem." She offered up the book tremulously.

Loghain frowned, but merely shook his head without commenting further. "I wanted you to know that it was done."

"Oh," Amerana said in a small voice, looking at him closely. He did not look any different, other than visibly exhausted. "Was it... terrible?"

Loghain's lips twisted strangely. "That would depend on your definition of several things," he remarked enigmatically. "Surely you aren't asking for a report, Warden."

"No!" she exclaimed, appalled and more than a little embarrassed. Heat crept into her cheeks like a small animal, red and tingling hot at her skin. "No," she said again, with less fervor. "Nothing like that." She straightened, gathering together the tattered, invisible shreds of her dignity. "It's my duty as... as the leader to know that my companions are alright."

Loghain's eyes were unsettling, and Amerana resisted the urge to look away. She was growing used to their appearance, she thought; no longer did the silvery orbs cut through her like the steel they so resembled, but they were far from warm and kind. "Companions," Loghain repeated, testing out the word. He sighed, the griefs of a hundred sorrows expressed in the simple sound. "Yes, Warden, I'm... fine." He extended a hand, firm and square and masculine, and Amerana stared at it blankly. "We should take what rest we can," he said tiredly. "We have an archdemon ahead of us."

Amerana nodded and took his hand, allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, and followed him out of the library, hugging herself tightly as she followed in the long shadow Loghain cast.


End file.
